Crackhead (7 page)

“'Sup, yo?” Wayne asked.

“Chillin',” the hustler responded. He expected Wayne to move on like he usually did, but instead he stayed put. The dealer noticed the hunger in Wayne's eyes, and he could tell that he wanted something. He knew the look well, but it was usually from one of the fiends trying to score. “What you doin' sniffin' 'round these streets all by yaself? It ain't no joke out here, kid.”

“I need something,” Wayne said, staring down at the hustler's huge gold rope chain with the Cadillac medallion and his Coca-Cola jacket.

“Word?” he asked in shock. “I would have never pegged you. You're too young to have a habit. What are you . . . eleven, twelve or something?”

“I'm fifteen,” Wayne said, sticking out his chest. “About to be sixteen.”

“Oh, so you just a grown-ass man, then, huh?” he said sarcastically as he began to chuckle.

Wayne just stood there with hunger still burning in his eyes. The dealer could easily see that he wasn't in a joking mood.

“So what can I do for you, lil' man? What you need, some coke, rock—”

“It's personal,” Wayne said in a hushed tone, cutting him off.

“Shit, it can't be that damn personal if you're running up on a nigga you don't really know. You must want to share it with somebody?” he reasoned. “For real, though. Talk to me, lil' man.”

Wayne looked into his eyes and saw genuine concern. Usually dealers ain't give no play to cats they weren't cool with, but
this one didn't appear to be nosy. He just wanted to know what had Wayne combing the tough streets with a mean look in his eyes. Wayne took a deep breath and told him an edited version of what had just gone down between him, Buck, and his mother. He told him how Buck had tried to leave them for dead. The fact that he had caught his mom turning a trick and not getting paid was something he didn't feel the need to share.

The dealer listened attentively. He was drawn in by the intensity with which Wayne told his story. Like hearing a rapper sharing his tale on wax, he could feel what Wayne was saying, even though he hadn't experienced it firsthand.

“That's some heavy shit, lil' man.” The dealer sighed, sliding his hand down his face, revealing a four-finger ring with the word DINK on it. The glare from the ring made Wayne squint. “Now I can see why you're out here stressin'. So, what now?”

DARYL WAS ONLY
two months old when his heroin-addicted mother traded him to a pusher named Bruce for an ounce.

Although Bruce wanted a son, it was for all the wrong reasons. Never having received much paternal nurturing himself, there wasn't much he could pass on to the boy. Instead of a rose, which needs to be nurtured, Daryl became a weed, growing in whichever direction the streets swayed him. But through it all, he was determined to make his own way. By the time he was eighteen, Daryl was sitting on $250,000 of his own scratch and had three cars without a license.

With a pusher for a father and the streets for a mother, it was understandable how Daryl “Dink” Highsmith could be swayed by the lure of the streets. According to him, school and thoughts of the white man's American dream were nothing more than distractions.
So what that he'd scored 1440 on the SAT? An education was not going to put clothes on his back, food on his plate, or money in his pocket.

Within four years, he moved up from small-time pimp to minor-league pusher, and eventually he became the man to see. Daryl had made his choice in life and there was no turning back. The South Bronx was pumpin' with hip-hop, drugs, and death at every corner. It was around this time that he met a chick named Crystal, known for her sweet smile and vicious bite. At first he tried to turn her out, but there was something about the fight in her that made him change his mind. That was only the second time in his life he gave someone the benefit of the doubt.

Together, Crystal and Daryl were a fearsome team. She'd count his stacks every night and sometimes collected for him. However, as his love for her grew intense, he decided that she didn't need to be in the streets with him. He sent her back to her mother's house and was determined to help her get her life together, the way he wished someone had done for him.

“I NEED A
gat,” Wayne said without hesitating.

The dealer laughed. “What you gon' do with a gun?” he asked, not reading between the lines.

“What you think?” Wayne said, sounding a little harsher than he had intended to sound. “I need to be able to protect myself and my moms. A nigga never gonna run up in my crib again. Ya know what I'm saying?”

The dealer took a deep breath and then let out a sigh. “That's a tall order, lil' man,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “All kinds of fucked-up shit happens with guns, man. A little dude like yaself might get hurt, or hurt somebody and bring a lot of
heat down on the niggas out here serving. The first thing they'll want to know is where you got the piece from.”

Wayne wasn't up for reasoning. He could see now that he needed to move on. “Yo, if you don't wanna hook me up, then I'm out!” Wayne held his hand out to give the dealer some dap. He wanted him to know that even though he wasn't going to help him out, they were still cool.

“Hold on, hold on. I didn't say that I didn't want to help you out,” the hustler said, grinning. “But this is business.” All of a sudden the little compassion he did have was out the window, quickly replaced by the attitude of a cunning businessman. “How you going to pay for what you need, homeboy?”

In Wayne's haste, he'd never thought about that little obstacle. In his quest for revenge, he had forgotten the most common law of the streets: nothing came without a price. This was something that hadn't crossed his mind, but he wouldn't be swayed.

“I ain't got no money,” Wayne confessed.

“Then you're shit out of luck,” the dealer said, turning his head to look down the block.

This was typical. One minute a muthafucka was up in your corner, and as soon as he found out your pockets were full of lint, he wasn't checking you no more.

“Hold on, man,” Wayne said, taking a seat next to him. “Maybe I can work it off?”

“I feel for you and all, but damn, lil' man, this ain't Burger King,” the dealer snarled. “I deal in cash, baby. Besides, what the hell can you do? You ain't no drug dealer. You ain't even no mule. You ain't got no street savvy or you wouldn't have ever stepped to me like you did in the first place. I can see your ass fuckin' up the game for everybody, so why should I put you on?”

Wayne thought on it for a minute before speaking. “I can do other things for you. Whatever you need done, if you know what I mean,” he said, throwing his hands up humbly. “No need frontin' me a gat if it's no use to you. Point a nigga out, and he's a memory.”

The dealer laughed. “That's big talk for a lil' man. But if your heart is as big as your mouth, then we just might be able to work some shit out. Peep this, you don't just wake up one morning and decide that you want to be a killer. It don't work like that. Besides, that don't even seem like ya style. You need to have yo' lil' ass in school or something.”

“You don't know me, it
is
my style, and fuck school. Going to school might mean a nigga can survive working for the man, but it don't teach nothin' about surviving in these streets. I'm tired of getting stepped on. A muthafucka ain't gon' never catch me without something ever again.” Wayne spoke angrily, spitting his words.

The vision of his mother crying as Buck spit on her would be permanently etched in his mind, forever. “I'ma eat, sleep, fuck, and take a bath wit' my shit. It's 1987 and I ain't takin' no shorts.”

“I don't know, homeboy,” the dealer said to Wayne. “Ghostin' somebody ain't easy. You gotta have that shit in your heart. Pulling that trigger is a muthafucka—the power behind it, the pull, the smoke and the heat. A lot of niggas are carrying burners, but everybody ain't busting them, know what I mean? Some of these cats wear their shit around their waist like they makin' a fashion statement. You might just be talking out ya ass because you all pissed off right now.”

“I'll tell you what,” Wayne said, getting angry. “Hook me up wit' a piece and you can watch me put a nigga's head to bed.”

Just then, some girl came heading their way. She was a hot-tie for sure—dark-skinned, color contacts, goddess braids with her baby hair slicked down and probably styled into waves by a toothbrush. The little bit of makeup she was wearing was just enough, as her skin was as smooth as the leather interior of a Caddy. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder polka-dot shirt, a denim miniskirt that showed off her bowlegs, fishnets, and turquoise pumps.

“Hey, daddy,” she said, approaching the dealer.

“Hey, now, baby girl,” the dealer replied as he stood up from the stoop and met her a few steps down. “What can I do you for?”

“I know what you like,” she said with a wink, “and you know what I like.”

“I'm straight on that stuff,” the dealer said, turning away from her. “My shorty took care of that for me before I left the crib, so no bartering tonight, baby girl. No cash, no stash.”

“I got money,” she said, copping that junkie attitude.

“Then we straight,” the dealer said, looking around. Then he pulled a pack of Kools from his back pocket and emptied a crack rock into the palm of her hand. Her eyes lit up like she was looking at a gold nugget. Slowly, she slipped her hand down the front of her skirt, placed the rock in the crotch of her panties, and pulled out some money.

“Here you go, daddy,” she said, handing him the crumpled-up five-dollar bills. “Take a whiff of that to remind you of me. What I got is better than money and you should never forget it.”

“Later,” the dealer said, unimpressed. She was a bum, but not like the man outside the bodega. She was a bum to all the dudes in the neighborhood. That was how they referred to old pussy. And there was certainly something better than old pussy—new pussy. Her shit was done.

The girl blew the dealer a kiss, then looked over at Wayne. “Breaking them in younger and younger every day, huh?” she said to the dealer. “He's a little cutie, too. Maybe one day you might wanna do something nice for your little worker bee. You know I'm always willing to work for mine. Later, fellas.” She strutted away.

“Sorry about that,” the dealer said, stuffing the Kools back in his pocket. “That was just Peaches. Ho will do anything for a rock.”

Wayne stood there in awe, watching her walk away. She didn't look anything like the neighborhood crackheads he had seen before. She seemed so sweet and innocent—not to mention fine. No way was she copping that shit for herself.

The dealer observed Wayne staring at the girl until she was out of sight. “Looky here,” he said, laughing. “Lil' man diggin' on Peaches. Man, she's gotta be twice your age. How old did you say you were again?”

“Why?” Wayne snapped, not appreciating being laughed at. “Is that gon' make a difference in whether you let me hold something?”

“You really is a hard lil' nigga, huh? I see the potential. I like your heart and I just may have some work for you. But I don't even know your name, homebody.”

“It's Wayne.”

“Wayne . . . Wayne what?”

“Just Wayne,” he said, figuring that was all the dude needed to know for now, unless he decided to help him out for certain.

“Okay, tough guy,” the dealer teased. “You sure don't look like no Wayne. With that scully sitting on top of ya head like that,
you look like a black-ass Smurf. And you kinda act like the little angry one. Matter of fact, fuck that
Wayne
shit. I'm gonna call you Smurf. That's yo' new name, lil' nigga. Get used to it.”

“Whatever,” Wayne said, waving him off. “So can I get that piece now or what?”

“What's the hurry, Smurf?”

“I need to take care of some important business. I've already wasted enough time.”

“What exactly
is
your business?” the dealer asked, searching his face.

“What kind of business you think?”

“There you go again with that shit. If you gonna be down wit' a nigga, you gotta keep it real. You gotta lay your shit out flat.”

“First off,” Wayne obliged, “I need to take care of some shit. I want to go ahead and knock down the first domino.”

The dealer nodded his head and smiled. He knew Wayne wasn't the street-bred type of cat, but he could tell that he'd seen a lot. And his street finesse seemed to flow naturally. It needed some polishing, but the kid had potential.

“Second off, do you really want me to make you an accessory before the fact?” Wayne said, using the language he had learned from the prime-time law shows like
L.A. Law
and
Columbo.

“Okay, Smurf,” the dealer said with a chuckle. “Follow me.”

He led Wayne over to his parked car, a brand-new cherry-red Benz 300 with a spoiler kit. He ordered him to get in on the passenger side, while he opened the driver's door. Inside the car, the hustler opened the glove box and pulled out a brown paper bag. He handed it to Wayne.

Wayne opened the bag and saw a shiny .32. He stroked the pistol inside the bag. He didn't dare pull it out on the Ave. like
that. He could feel the hammer singing to him as his finger stroked the metal. He sat there like a deer caught in headlights, admiring the pistol.

“Think you can work with that?” the dealer asked.

“Hell yeah,” Wayne said, snapping out of his daze. “I'll bring it right back when I'm done.”

“Nah, it's yours now. You keep it. And just remember, if anything happens, forget where you got it.”

“Word?” Wayne said, smiling and rocking his head. “Thanks, man, I owe you for real.”